


a bouquet without roses (a cake without sugar)

by Pontmercyingtilthecowscomehome



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, BAMF Leia Organa, Cassian Andor-centric, Chaptered, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Epistolary, F/M, Fluffy, Sweet, Valentine's Day, cassian as a florist, inspired by 90s romcoms, leia as a ceo
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-10-28 21:17:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17794913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pontmercyingtilthecowscomehome/pseuds/Pontmercyingtilthecowscomehome
Summary: Cassian Andor, environmentally-friendly florist, is already dreading a very busy Valentine's Day season.Leia Organa-Skywalker, overworked CEO, really just wants the romantic holiday to go away forever.A faked relationship might just lead the two of them to a very sweet day after all.





	1. Chapter 1

For a florist, even a part-time one, there’s one brief, beautiful lull in the middle of their two busiest holiday seasons, (ignoring, of course, the impending doom of the ever-growing wedding season that now stretches from May through October). The lull begins on January second, and goes until, roughly, January fifteenth.

So, on January second, Cassian always, always, rewards himself for surviving the winter holiday season with a leisurely breakfast. The past month swims through his memory as he get to work on this year’s luxury breakfast; stuffed French toast with candied pecans, maple mascarpone cream, and a reduction of fig jam drizzle. He usually prefers a savory breakfast, but if there’s one thing that makes his sweet tooth appear, it’s stress. 

And the past month has been nothing but stress. So much pine. So many needles. So much _glitter_ and jingle bells and holly berries… to say nothing of warning everyone how dangerous poinsettias are to pets, fielding question on christmas trees when there’s no floral shop in the world that sells them, and dealing with his _own_ family, thankfully by telephone only this year. He’s not sure he could handle the constant barrage from his abuela, his tías, and any other assorted family member who might appear for the sole joy of demanding to know when Cassian Jeron Andor, florist, might be getting married.

He should be glad they’ve focused on the florist bit of his life, and not the various other facts, including how he went to grad school in New York City, far from his home in Mexico, how he stayed in New York (no one can say Nueva York with quite as much disdain as his own abuela now) for a relationship that wilted faster than a dahlia, and then found his life’s passion, not with a new lover, but with a mission. The Rebellion Garden center offers year-round fresh produce, thanks to a carefully maintained hydroponic and solar-panel setup, to the upstate town’s local soup kitchens, and also serves as a place for teens coming from juvenile detention centers to learn a trade, as well as find some inner peace. Especially, Cassian thinks, if the kiddos remember to attend Chirrut’s daily meditation sessions. 

Which, granted, Cassian is also woefully bad at attending, at least when the florist work gets busy. The Garden is a true non-profit, but supplements its income with a traditional style florist shop, located next-door. It’s there that Cassian has worked for five years, when he’s not helping with the various crop collections, teaching kids how to cook with vegetables that they’ve never tried before, and… well… potentially engaging in his fair share of activst protests, hacks, and other things that don’t need to be mentioned. 

Least of all to his family.

While he finishes up his breakfast, he hears music start up in Kay’s room, muffled only slightly by the closed door. A second later, Cassian’s phone beeps with a text from Kay. **Are you having company or just happy-cooking?**

Cassian texts back, **happy-cooking. No work today.**

And then, with perfectly ironic timing, Cassian’s work email flashes as a pop-up on his phone. 

Shit. 

But since it’s January second, Cassian figures the order is probably for a birthday, or maybe some sort of New Year’s Eve apology bouquet. _Sorry I puked on your carpet. Here’s a dozen roses. Sorry I made out with your best friend at midnight and not you. Here’s two dozen roses._

 _Sorry that…_ Well, really there was no end to the amount of terrible romantic decisions people would attempt to fix with roses, as if their silken petals offered some sort of combination forgetfulness-and-forgiveness spell.

Not that Rebel Flowers carries roses, as the plants require a great deal of resources that are better spent elsewhere. Most of the flowers they sell are local wildflowers or pretty, sustainable ones are preferred by Bodhi’s bees. The running joke is that the honeybees eat better than anyone else in the whole crew, unless Cassian’s cooking a brunch.

So, Cassian ignores the message for now. He instead texts Kay, **Breakfast?**

**No.**

From anyone else, Cassian might, if he thought about it, consider the flat no, plus proper punctuation, to be a sign of anger. From Kay, it’s normal. His phone flashes again, with another message. **I've paid our rent for the next three months.**

Cassian isn’t surprised. Kay covers the rent, somehow, and without fail, and with a begrudgingly-extracted promise that the funds are gained legally. Allegedly. Kay is Cassian's roommate. Allegedly. Cassian’s never seen the person who had posted the Roommate Wanted ad in the first place, ages ago. The Craiglist post described Kay as a factual, punctual person who was utterly unimpressed with 97% of all prior roommates interviewed.

Cassian’s own dislike of most people tended to be in that same tail end of the bell curve, and so, he’d reached out. Jyn had insisted it was a bad idea, but given Cassian's lack of interest in creating any records of where he lives, he figured living with a self-proclaimed computer genius and hobbyist Wikipedia-updater couldn't be the worst thing. The two bonded for weeks over texts and calls and video game sessions. Cassian figured himself a good enough judge of character to trust Kay, which was rewarded when Kay passed over certain files on their state of existence. Cassian's never shared that data with anyone else, encrypting it away from even Jyn's hacking skills. Kay pays the rent and Cassian protects Kay, and so, the House on U. Street remains a safe place for them both.

The running joke, given that no one has ever seen Kay, the house always seems to be empty, and no one in the whole town has ever recalled meeting Kay, is that Kay is simply the internet’s embodiment of Cassian's dream roommate. Cassian himself is sure there's a more logical explanation, but there's no point in looking for one, when what they have works so well.

So he settles in on the couch with his breakfast, sets his phone as far away from him as possible, and turns on an episode of _Great British Bakeoff_ , which is his most guilty pleasure of all guilty pleasures. Everything is so low-stakes. The weather is always impossibly perfect. There’s amazing baked goods for him to memorize and find ways to re-create. It offers challenges and it offers peace and Cassian thinks those two things (minus the whole imperialism bit since it is British) might be his favorite things in the world.

Followed closely by his amazing French Toast.

He’s used to this routine by now, eating alone, Netflixing alone, and tells himself this is perfectly fine. If he wants to communicate with someone, he can strike up a video game or texting conversation with Kay, or he could even wander out to Bodhi’s apartment, only a few blocks away. Jyn lives… somewhere inside the city and he know he can find her too. The thing is, Cassian knows, is he’s tired of finding people. Of searching for them.

Tracking down people’s families and loved ones had been his job for a long time before he’d come to Rebellion Gardens. It was good work, healing work, but it was exhausting, too. Because he had to be the bearer of bad news sometimes, had to witness just how much damage a broken heart could do. It was enough, he thinks, for him to ensure his own heart is locked away in a box made of cast-iron and wrapped in poison ivy. (the metaphor might have been better with thorny roses, but he really, really, hates those damn flowers.)

Eventually, he knows it's time to check his phone. So, he pauses Netflix, sets down his plate, makes more coffee, and then, surrenders to the inevitable. He tries not to think about how if he had someone, his own someone, the way Chirrut has Baze, he could curl up next to them on the couch, even as he gets to work reading the damn message. He tries not to think of all the shows he’s queued on Netflix that he wants to watch with someone. 

He absolutely refuses to think about the one-day-only pastry workshop taking place on Valentine’s Day in his favorite bakery downtown. Even if one of the offered classes in the workshop is on Sour Cherry and Pistachio pinwheel danishes, something he’s yet to master… and something that featured in the last episode's bakeoff.

But Valentines Day means one thing for both bakers and florists, and that’s… work. Lots and lots of work. At least he doesn’t have to deal with roses. Frosted ones, chocolate ones, or real ones.

With that thought in mind, and already picturing the simple yet tasteful birthday bouquet he’ll make for whoever placed the order today, he finally picks up the phone. 

Two hours later, Cassian rubs his beard, staring at the message, which scans more like an email than a text. He’s read it three times, and each time, he’s more baffled. He looks down at his phone, again, hoping that maybe this time, now that he’s made himself two more cups of coffee, the email will finally make sense.  


It’s too detailed, too factual to be a prank, to say nothing of the fact that no one ever pranks someone by buying them flowers from the only organic, locally sourced florist in the whole city. But what else could it be? Who could write such a… amusing… and yet… terrifyingly bitter… request?

**“I am writing to pre-order one (1) Valentine’s Day (February 14th) bouquet. Please ensure the bouquet looks like something a remarkably ordinary (basic, as the youth say) man would order.**

****

****

**Tacky, over the top but only in a way that’s dreadfully outdated, (perhaps with one of those small teddy bears?) and conveying the concept of _mass-produced romance_ as efficiently and clearly as possible. Roses would probably be most efficient. No yellow flowers (as those are said to represent friendship), no lilies (funerals), no sticks/pinecones/toy dinosaurs/twigs (far too modern), and absolutely no succulents. I am quite sick of jokes pertaining to singleness and cacti.”**

The email isn’t signed. The card is supposed to be addressed to _Leia_ but no last name is given. Which is fine, most of the cards they make are first name only. Cassian is actually quite proud of the cards which are done on a 1860s letterpress, which Baze brought back to the group after a particularly long weekend spent at various flea markets. Nothing makes Cassian feel better about having to transcribe something like “babe, I’m sorry I slept with your sister and didn’t tell you until right before Thanksgiving dinner” than knowing it will be made by Baze smashing heavy lead type down onto the paper, leaving an impression as deep as whatever emotional hurt the flowers were supposed to fix.

They never do, of course, and that’s the small, hard part of this job. People send flowers for so many sad reasons, so many heartbreaking reasons, and all he can do is make the best boquets possible for them. 

This request though, is less sad, and more odd. It’s a challenge. One that has him running a hand through his hair, until, finally, he gets back to his old habit and gets to hacking. The email came from a generic account, but the IP address provides plenty more information for him, including a recovery address. That recovery address is a corporate-owned one… which means he can get to the corporate website.

He clicks a few more keys, until he lands at a red-hued home page for the _Alliance Consortium._

Why did that sound so familiar? Instead of spending more time on the sleek corporate landing page, he turns to Google. A few seconds later, he’s rewarded with his answer… and the weight of a brick in his stomach.

_Alliance Consortium, chaired by the cutthroat, icy-calm CEO, Leia Organa-Skywalker, a Yale grad and formerly chief of the legal counsel for the company, prior to her initiating its hostile takeover. After all, only five years ago, the Consortium was better known as Empire Inc, which was the largest drone-based weapons research and creation firm in existence._

Leia.

He doubts there’s more than one Leia in a company like that. He also realizes why the letter is worded the way it is. Because she’s sending flowers to herself. Because no one else, not unless they were very foolish or very desperate, would get tangled up with someone known as the _princess of portfolios._ A quick search tells him a great deal more about her, and even more about her recently deceased father, a man who apparently had no qualms about any sort of immoral business dealings, from money laundering to gun brokerage. Anakin Skywalker, more commonly called the Dark Lord of Lending, had a forceful personality that allowed him to ampass more power than practically anyone else in the entire nation. Cassian’s hated the man for ages, hated him since a subsidiary branch of Empire Inc. wiped out the local businesses many of his family owned back home, destroying their livelihood and replacing the friendly shops with a megafactory, churning out toxic chemicals that ruin even more lives, in a terrible ripple effect Cassian still feels guilty for leaving behind.

Working at Rebellion Gardens was supposed to provide a way for Cassian to help heal the world from the hurt caused by Empire Inc. But now, Cassian has come in direct contact with his heir.

Who does this Leia think she is? Giving him an order for flowers? When everything the Rebellion Gardens stands for would be destroyed if companies like hers were allowed to run the world (more than they already do.) 

So she doesn’t have a Valentine? Good. Cassian turns off his phone. There’s no way he’s accepting an order to send flowers to a weapons-dealing CEO. No way in hell.


	2. Chapter 2

 

Although most global markets remain open throughout the majority of what marketing so vaguely calls the holiday season, the workflow of most corporate executives slows down over the last weeks of December and the first weeks of January. Which is, of course, a terrible idea, given that year-end is smack-dab in the middle of the “holiday season” and accounting, unlike Santa, isn’t a myth.

Leia hasn’t believed in Santa since she was five, but she officially stopped believing at fourteen, which was precisely the age her twin brother came to the conclusion there was no gift-giving fairy, only their father’s secretary, who ordered their gifts each year. There was no religious element to their family tradition, only capitalism and bribery. 

But just because she doesn’t believe in, nor celebrate, any holidays, doesn’t prevent her from having sympathy for her staff that do. Besides, only someone worthy of the name Ebenezer would deny holiday vacation requests, so in general, most firms managed by non-tyrants tend to be short-staffed.

The problem, Leia muses, is that most CEOs are tyrants and so, her choice to give everyone at Alliance as many days as they needed off, meant that the company’s work all fell to her. 

The bigger problem, perhaps, with that, is that’s exactly how she likes things.

She turns from watching the snow fluttering down from the overcast sky and once again heads back toward her desk The Alliance headquarters remains in the stark grey skyscraper that once housed Empire Inc. There are plans underway to move the location into something a little more aligned with the new mission, but plans, like so many other things, take time.

And Leia Organa Skywalker is always lacking in that most precious resource. She’d thought that the actual running of a business would take less time than the years spent carefully undermining her father’s corrupt directives, but so far, she’s busier than ever.

Which is why she arrived at the office at four am, and has been here since then. Leia’s pretty sure it’s somewhere around four pm, and is rather sure it’s still January, give or take a week.

She’s decided to tell none of those things to her friend who is waiting for her response;. “I’m sorry,” Leia finally answers Amilyn’s question which had caused so much window-view-musing. “I can’t go out for dinner, not tonight. Or tomorrow night.”

Amilyn sighs. “Or any night this month?”

“Probably not.”

“It’s not that I _mind_ you working every single weekend and holiday while espousing the importance of work-life balance for everyone else, Leia.” Amilyn says, from where she’s perched on the edge of Leia’s desk, one floral shoe dangling off the edge of her foot. The floral pattern contains reds and pinks and yellows, none of which are matched in her pale blue business suit, but they do compliment her softly maroon-colored hair. “It’s just…” 

“But it’s not me,’ Leia protests. “I’m sure to use the Bob Ushen ID card every time I enter the building and--”

“First of all, who came up with that fake name for you? You’d be better off calling yourself I. C. Queen if you’re going to use an alias.”

Leia raises one eyebrow at her college roommate, turned journalist-who-led-the-whistle-blowing on Empire Inc, turned Chief of Corporate Social Responsibility, post-takeover. Amilyn might know her better than anyone else at the company, but once in a while, she still manages to surprise her. Leia asks, “Ice Queen?”

“You are a little Elsa-like on occasion.” She smiles in return. “which you would know, had you attended Disney Princess on Ice with me.”

“I had a date last weekend. With Wil.”

“Mm. A date that let you send seventeen emails?”

“Ami!” Leia blushes. “You counted?”

“It’s not hard to do. And really, that was your least concerning email day. I was far more worried two weeks ago.”

“What was two weeks ago?”

“Seventy-one emails.”

“So?” Leia’s honestly a bit proud of that number.

You’re the only person emailing on December Thirty-first, especially between 11:55 pm and 1am.”

“What else would I be doing then?” 

As a response, Amilyn starts humming a tune that takes Leia ages to recognize. In fact, it takes her so long that Amilyn gives up on subtly and starts singing, “ _Should old acquaintances be forgot-”_

“Oh. That.” Leia’s voice is as flat as her company’s revenue last quarter. Profit isn’t everything, of course, but when Alliance isn’t doing well, neither is Leia.

“That? Only one of the most _romantic_ holidays?”

“Holidays are inventions made by capitalism and celebrated by fools,” Leia says. Only a moment too late does she hear the echo of her father in her words, and winces. She had mimicked him for so long, long enough to save her brother, to save the company, and then, to destroy him. But old habits die hard, so she adds, “romance isn’t real.”

Amilyn makes a tsking noise but gives up on the argument. “At least Wil is good at ensuring you’ve had meals delivered.”

“He truly is,” Leia agrees. Glad she’s made sure to order at least one meal a week from a restaurant that she’d never frequent herself, to highlight that Wil _clearly_ had his own personality and tastes.

“And he doesn’t seem to mind your _charming_ opinion on love.”

“We can’t all be as mushy as you, Wedge, and Winter,” Leia replies, but only in the lightest teasing tone. She’d been delighted when her friend found the love she’d sought for so long with the couple that had been working at Alliance almost as long as Leia had. “Wil and I have a good relationship. A working one.”

_A fictional one_ , she almost adds. 

Eventually, Amilyn heads out for the night and Leia turns back to her work. It’s been a long, slow process undoing the decades of damage her father’s greed had caused, but the importance of the work is more than enough to keep her focused. 

Sometimes she daydreams about a life that she might have lived. A simpler one, filled with joy and light and laughter. A life more like the one her brother leads. Leia’s never figured out Luke managed to keep his sweet wonder throughout all the dark years, but she’s glad he has. He’s the sunshine that keeps everyone in Alliance hopeful, and Leia is the driving force, like gravity, keeping them committed to the goals.

Between the two of them, she is sure they can change the world for the better.

But sometimes, if she’s honest with herself, she’d love to take a break from the fight. Just for a few minutes. To see a musical, or to eat… well, to eat something sweet and decadent and utterly impractical. 

With that thought in mind, she turns on her favorite show, letting the soft chatter of the baking contestants provide a soothing auditory backdrop to her work reviewing legal papers. They’re busy cooking flourless chocolate cakes, which sound incredible. As they toss around words like decadent and delicious, Leia snacks on carrot sticks and runs calculations on a balance sheet that’s longer than most novels.

Her life, she thinks, is more like a sugarless cake than a flourless one. Something that looks perfect, impressive, amazing, but, when you try to taste it, you’d find it quite bitter.

Because Leia has given up on romance and love and all those sweet things in life. 

Hence the existence of Wil Luxen, her imaginary boyfriend, who exists just enough to prevent gossip, unwanted advances from other suitors, and sympathy. He sends flowers, meals, once in a while even tickets to a movie or a dress. All of which, of course, have been carefully ordered by Leia under a false name, and arranged to be delivered while the staff watches.

She’d been quite sure that the ordering of a dress in a completely wrong size hd been her best maneuver yet.

Now, with Valentine’s day around the corner, she again has to fool everyone into believing she’s found love, she’s found her happiness.

As she’s thinking of it, an email from the florist pops up. Leia smiles, happy that one task is off her to-do list until she scans the content. **fulcrum@rebelliongardens.net: My apologies, but we have no roses.**

She types back quickly, “ **any substitution is fine**.” Leia almost, almost, adds, _I hate roses anyway. Flowers shouldn’t hurt you._ But that’s far too personal to share with a random florist, or anyone at all.

**fulcrum@rebelliongardens.net: I don’t believe we have any flowers that would fit your other requirements.**

Leia taps out a reply, growing more frustrated. She’s not used to this process being so difficult: **You’re a florist. I’m sure you’ll think of something.** Isn’t that his job? What’s next? A baker who refuses to make bread?

**fulcrum@rebelliongardens.net: I am a florist, but I am certainly not the the type of florist you are perhaps used to working with. I recommend you work with someone else, and given your company’s interest in arms-dealing, I suggest a bouquet of Smith and Wessons.**

Leia’s face heats. A tiny part of her brain whispers to disengage, to just sacrifice her pride and contact the other florist in town. 

The rest of her, though, is longing for a fight. (as usual, Luke would say, if he was here and not off skiing with his latest boyfriend.) She types back: **Given your garden’s interest in second chances, I suggest you offer one.**

There’s no answer. Good. She’ll consider that a victory. 

In the background, someone in the tent for the baking contest has dropped their chocolate cake, and all is ruined. The judges are trying to console the baker, reminding them there’s far more important things in life, that really, it’s just a cake, that they’ll go on to bake better things.

There’s no better things in Leia’s future. Every day is the same never-ending cycle of work, punctuated only by a few small moments of warmth with Amilyn or Luke. She doesn’t know how to ask for any more than that. She’s a princess after all, according to the tabloids. Spoiled. Rich. Wanting nothing and demanding everything.

And given her emails to that random florist, Leia fears, not for the first time, the tabloids might just be right.

Leia pulls up the Rebellion Garden’s website, (which her internet browser helpfully reminds her that she’s visited _often_ in the past month) and stares at the soft script emblazoned over a lovely photo of wildflowers.

One of her few cherished memories of her mother had been running through a field, picking flowers for her mother, bring back chubby handful after chubby handful of scrubby little blooms to her, and being told every flower was beautiful, perfect, wonderful.

And things had been beautiful, then, too, while Padmé had lived. Life had been sweet, in those memories. Sweeter than any cake, than anything else.

But happy memories, like flowers, wilt over time.

So Leia blinks away embarrassed hot tears as she reads over Rebellion Garden’s mission statement one more time:

_A place for growth, for second chances, and above all, for hope to bloom._

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are very welcome! I hope you enjoy and Happy Valentine's day!!!


End file.
